entropy beneath the yellow cupboards
by Clarice Waters
Summary: on the killing fields. Don't you hate it when the character limit cuts off your heading. A series of oneshots based around the concept that Edward goes to bella's place the afternoon of her first day of school to get his vamp on.
1. Oneshot 1

She's beautiful in that primal way that pray appeals to predator. Alluring in it's unguarded state. All grace and careless ease in its ignorance. Even in her anger, banging utensils as she moves, she has a fluid sense of motion about her. He scents the salty aroma of tears on the air, caustic to her whittled strength, and finds that it unnerves him. A part of the beast, the human part, pushed down into the deep dark like a prisoner chained to a cold cobblestone wall, finds this very curious, considering the beasts intentions. Another aberration in a long line of anomalies. It's been too damn long since anyone's carried the weight of any interest for him. He already knows that this one is special.

But the beasts mind, such as it is in this moment, is a hurricane. Foggy and incoherent in all matters but one. He is screaming, all of him, his thoughts, his body, for what is stood before him and as a fresh wave of _her _strikes into his very being, he feels like a newborn again. That heady mix of mania and blind empowerment, the adrenalin. His muscles growling and tense with the ferocity of his need. His throat aches and his belly yearns, and never before has he felt so hollow. And all for the smell of _her_.

The world around her seems grainy, porous. Seeming to dissolve into a colorful haze of unreality under its own insignificance in the face of her. He had always known he would be here, in this moment, with her. Had known from the first moment that she was for him. With a scent such as hers what other purpose could she possibly have but to sustain him. Than to become his. And she would, he thought. Because that was the way these moments were meant to unfold. She was his prey, and for all the human body's complexity it would tear easily under his palms. Her physical strong hold easily breached if not her psychological one. He wants to hear her scream, strangled in pained desperation. He wants her struggling and sacrificial beneath him as he undoes her.

There's a tightness in the air as he feels her feel him. And her inch by inch about face in the birthing twilight is excruciating. He is before her, the beast bared all, and she is stumbling, all triple time breaths and trembling limbs, to equate what she sees with what her instinct tells her she should be seeing. He can only imagine how he seemed to her. The feral quality of his face, eyes wild and hungry, lips pulled back in a low snarl. But still somehow unnaturally beautiful, unnaturally alluring, and even now beneath the fear he can see that she's still unsure. He wants her to stay, to step towards him, to hold out her arms and crane her neck, but he wants her to run also because, and he didn't think he was alone here, they were so much more _fun _when they ran.

He is across the kitchen, silent against the wood, and has her by the hair far faster than time could have possibly allowed; and she thinks, for lack of anything else for the thinking, in her fear swept mindscape that that was her mistake. Time was never a fixed construct, and never _anybodies_ friend.

Her skin is smooth under his nose, and her fear, he can't help but growl, _oh_ her fear permeates _everything_ and concentrates her already mouthwatering floral. Wave after maddeningly succulant wave he breathes her in, shocking his heightened sences. If he could remember anything at all through the static in his mind he doesn't think he'd ever remember wanting anything this much, ever remember being this out of control, but then he couldn't remember ever coming across a human that smelt this good. He decides that it dosn't matter.

Her mouth trembles at the corners and he likes that, licks each side like one might an ice-pop and moans from deep within his chest. Tears slide from beneath lids that have been clamped tightly shut, dripping to her flushed chest and he follows them with his nose. There is no distance between them anymore and he rips at her shirt and bra to keep it that way, following the path of a lone tear down the curve of her breast. Her strangely lopsided lips open and she inhales preparing a scream that won't ever come as he plants a hand over them probably, he suspects, with a little more force than necessary. Only a pathetic sob of desperation is ripped from her. He likes that too. He can feel the tiny veins in her lips. He notices, with a curious lick that the skin of her breasts is saltier that the skin of her face and wonders if her blood would taste different, worse maybe? Or better, if taken from there. He looks but can't find a suitable vein. She's trembling beneath him as he rises to full height, just as he wanted, and he violently grasps her wrists, pinning them behind her with one hand. He presses himself against her, leeching the heat from her body through his clothing and relishing the quick uneven pound of her heart. She struggles weakly, arching her back in effort to push away as he buries his face in her hair, but it only serves to brush her breasts against him in her efforts. He grasps the soft scented strands of her hair with his free hand and pulls, exposing the long, smooth expanse of her neck for his perusal. As he runs his tongue along the pale column the beasts bane (Edward, whoever _that_ is) shouts from obscurity. Wants her to say something, do anything that might change the beasts mind.

"Edward?" She manages. A squeak, really. Weak even to her. It isn't enough. And as the beast fastens himself to her, with the small, inconsequential lot of thought afforded him, _(Edward) _is sad.

She whimpers in obvious pain, her every muscle seeming to tense. But it's lost to him as an arterial spray of her blood hits his palate. She tastes of supernova's, of sweet oblivion. The Beginning and End of all things. He grips her tighter in his ecstasy, groaning and moaning and grunting in turn like an animal. She is heat beyond the physical sensation of heat. There is nothing _but_ the indescribable taste of her as her leg's buckle and gravity claims them. He is aware, vaguely, of a distant _thud_ against boards and her form falling limp as he lands between her thighs and is swathed in her. Her scent surrounding him like morning mist. She is soft and hot and yielding beneath him and it only serves to strengthen the need as he pushes himself against her. She is everything all at once; a messiah, and the most inconsequential stranger. For seventy years he'd walked the earth, tortured with guilt unimaginable, and here he'd found the answer. Inside this tiny, little wisp of a thing. _She_ was forgiveness, _She_ was contentment. Her smell, her body, her face, her voice, her blood! He wanted it all! He wanted to take that beauty that heat, and drink it dry, to own it! Absorb this warm, wondrous creature into himself until she is deathly cold and he was alive again.

Then hands are grabbing him. Seemingly from nowhere. He tries to shrug them off because those things, those things that the hands are, are all things that he knows and he doesn't want them anymore. Hard, muscled arms wedge themselves between him and his meal and he is yanked back. He tries to reach her still, jaws snapping in frenzied panic but whatever has him won't stop backing away and the metres between himself and her blood feel like light-years. His vision tunnels, all else seeming to blur into the middle until the breathtaking, mouthwatering mess of _her_ and he can only roar in indignant rage as sweatered arms lift her. She is _his _kill, her blood is _his _salvation and they can't have her! But they do, and as quick as the arms were there they are gone, _her _with them and with the slow, irregular _thump_ of her heart softening in the distance, as the overwhelming air that is _her_ dissipates from his senses, the hurricane subsides and the world rushes back.


	2. Oneshot 2

Her eyes open in a gasp. The air is comfortable in her lungs, nice to have but seemingly unnecessary. A whisper of time and space flutter to the surface and her hands fly to her chest, fingers stuttering over the buttons of her blouse. She's wearing a blouse. Her fingers stretch, splay as if to shield. There is too much light. There are things she doesn't remember.

Visions, frames of the room, flick before her eyes like a person flipping through television channels too quickly and there is breathing. She can hear it like crystal in the air and there's something familiar. A taste, a shape; climbing her vertebrae. It spells _threat_ and before she can blink she has flung herself back. Climbing, crouched down low from the bed like some sought of grotesque feral child into the arms of a corner. Theres a hiss in the air and it takes her a moment to realize that it's coming from her. She should be afraid. She's trying to feel something but emotion seems to have slid back inside of her, leaving _this_ at the helm. She didn't think she used to _be_ like this. She doesn't remember. She doesn't _remember_.

Theres seven. Six standing in pairs, a male and a female. The seventh, she can feel _feel?_, hidden behind the crowd. The closest (male, blonde, hair gelled back) is muttering, hands raised. Placating. Taunting. She doesn't know. It could all be in her head. Everything is starting to slow down. Words form between them and she slowly becomes aware of the room. Feels glass beneath her arm and spies the window. Theres carpet beneath her feet; plush and gold. She doesn't like the gold, it's too close to yellow. She remembers yellow. There's something, something and someone. A weight against her beneath the yellow cabinets.

Isabella Swan. But she prefers Bella. Her name is Isabella Swan and she's always preferred Bella. This is fact. There is fact between them. Humanoid, in-humanly beautiful, no heart beat (exist but but not alive). These are fact and fact is something that she _knows_. She can work with facts. Clarity curls across her cheek (exist but but not alive) and her eyes widen, open and large. She can hear for _miles_, twigs snapping in the surrounding forest, cars coming and going through the town limits, conversation between people she seemed to know instinctually were not anywhere close to nearby. Her sight is sharper, things have more definition, and the colors some she recognises, some she doesn't, are all incredibly vibrant. She doesn't know what to do with this kind of vibrancy, real and _there_. Her senses are sharp as a pin. She stands, rising from her poised position, staying with the corner. She doesn't know what any of this means. If it means anything at all.

"Bella," the closest blonde male. "Bella, how do you feel?" How does she feel? She isn't sure, she should be sure. She feels strong. Can feel it, her strength, like it were an entity all it's own sliding through her veins. But she also feels _wrong_, fundamentally just wrong. An abomination on several moral and biological levels. Her skin is crawling, scratching to detach from her.

"Like the presence in the atmosphere when Pennywise murdered Georgey." It's all she has for them. She cranes her neck, stretching and testing her muscles, but then a calm trickles through her that she doesn't recognise. She's quite sure, somehow, that it isn't hers. "Tell them to stop." Her voice surprises her, it's melodic like nothing she's ever heard bar the blonde mans, tries to remember if it was always this way. Stops. Tries again. She wonders why she didn't have that train of thought the first time she spoke. She is seriously out of touch in this dangerous situation and she needs to kick herself back in. There are greater things to think about. (exist but not alive)

"Tell who to stop what?" The blonde's features scrunch briefly then smooth and she decides that, though short lived, his confusion was genuine.

"Your empath. It's both unnecessary and rude. Tell them to _stop_." The last word comes out like she dropped it, heavy with promise and while she recognises that she is out numbered _this _seems quite confident that she could take them. She doesn't know how but hopes that it's right because it's out now, threat and all.

Surprise sits in the air like an oddly hung painting. It's niether here nor there, or it's both, she doesn't know, but gives a slight nod anyway as the calm fades, even as a swell of panic bubbles in it's place. Confusion aswell but they are hers and thats alright. She senses them, takes them and puts them away. There are doors for these saughts if things.

"You are Vampires?" She studies them, finds them familiar in thier faultless, pale beauty, yet alien in and of themselves. It occurs to her that this familiarity, low in her belly, is that born of recognition of yourself in another and she doesn't like that at all. Theres saddness, a sigh carried out on a frown and the slight dip of her head in resignation. "And myself as well now, I suppose."


End file.
